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Gray knows all the faces that frequent the Bare Bard, which means he instantly spots the newcomer.
The guy fits in amongst the crowd, though; all hard edges and thick muscles and a glare that promises trouble. Even the eyepatch isn't a new sight around here, but the white hair is a little strange; the guy can't be more than forty and yet it's completely natural, no dye job.
He's never been to the fight nights before of that Gray is sure so he keeps an eye on him, but doesn't feel overly concerned about it. There is zero chance that man is a cop, unless the police department has taken to hiring people who look like they kill people for a living.
Hell, considering who the regulars are at the Bare Bard, it's definitely possible that this guy does kill people for a living.
"Tommy," Gray calls over the chatter of the bar, not taking his eyes off the newcomer as the guy weaves his way expertly through the crowd. The bartender turns his attention to the black-haired man, raising his eyebrows in question. "You know him?" Gray jerks his head towards the stranger.
With the air of someone who has paranoia in his bones (Gray can sympathize), Tommy follows his line of sight, eyes narrowing instinctively. His gaze relaxes when he sees who Gray is talking about.
"Ah, that's nothing. Some merc in town for a few days, signed up for a fight." Gray raises his eyebrows, prompting for more information, and Tommy snorts. "We're not picky about credentials here, Red, you know that. Why ya asking?"
Gray likes Tommy for a number of reasons, one of the lesser ones being the amusing, ever-changing nicknames he is given. The middle-aged bartender found his name greatly entertaining upon first meeting him, and since then has called him a different color every single time they speak. The most memorable one was Coquelicot.
"He's asking because he's our guardian angel," a rough voice coos, coming up behind Gray. "Ain't that right, Gray? Always lookin' out for us. The sole man of honor in a den of thieves."
Simultaneously, Gray and Tommy roll their eyes.
"Honor," Tommy snorts, pouring a drink for someone who's been trying to grab his attention for the last minute. "This isn't a place of honor, Conrad, and I wouldn't employ Emerald here if I thought he had honor."
"I really think I ought to be offended," Gray says thoughtfully. Tommy gives him a dry look.
"Aw, I think that's going a little too far, Tommy," Conrad protests, laughter in his voice. "Gray's a solid man under all that..." His eyes slid up and down Gray's body. "...brooding muscle."
Gray resists a sigh; Conrad is one of their regulars, rarely loses a fight (always loses to Gray, just like everybody else), and is generally harmless, if you ignore the fact that he's an arms dealer outside the walls of the Bare Bard. He also has made it his mission to get Gray in his bed, but that's a can of worms Gray absolutely won't open. Conrad's attractive enough, but he's also clingy and possessive, and Gray doesn't need that in his life.
"Besides," Conrad continues, actually laughing now (definitely had too much to drink), "you have some honor of your own, Tommy, with all your bar rules; the kid fits right in."
A loud cheer from the other end of the bar draws their attention, and Gray can't help the grin that spreads across his face, his pulse speeding up. It's 10pm on a Friday night fight time.
Seven months ago, when Gray woke up in a hospital with no ID and no idea who he was, he had nowhere to go. Then he found the Bare Bard, and Tommy, and Tommy's wife Lyssa, and he found a place to actually do something other than wander aimlessly, searching for a life he no longer had. Gray still doesn't know where he learned to fight the way he does or when he earned the scars that litter his body, but the fights pay well and so does working at the Bare Bard the other six nights of the week.
"Go on," Tommy instructs. His tone is exasperated but there's a smile tugging at his lips. "Go earn yourself some money and embarrass some folks not used to being embarrassed."
Gray gives a mock salute, his grin turning cheeky, and says, "Sir yes sir," before vanishing into the crowd, making his way towards the backroom where their small, make-shift fighting ring resides.
With no memory, Gray spends a lot of his life feeling slightly out of step with the rest of the world. But every Friday night, for the couple hours where he gets to be in that ring, everything seems so much more...peaceful. Clearer. It's just him and the fight in front of him, and hell, he fights as easily as breathing. Might not know why, but it's the time he feels most himself.
The first fight starts the way every first fight always starts; his opponent sees him, gets nervous when they recognize who they're up against, and then gets briefly cocky, as if they're going to be the one to finally take down Gray, the champion. Even the ones Gray's fought before act like that.
But after that first fight...Well, they all still try, but most of the time they've already accepted their fate.
By the time he's won his second fight, Gray's blood is pounding in his veins, adrenaline pumping. He feels high, and can't stand still, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits for whoever's next. Around the ring people are exchanging money, grumbling or cheering depending on the way they bet. Only idiots bet against Gray.
Gray smirks. Idiots and those too drunk to think straight.
His next opponent steps into the ring then, and it's the newcomer. He's smiling at Gray, slow and vaguely sinister, and the looks in his eye is heated. The man shifts into a fighting stance and Gray doesn't try to stop himself from grinning back, amused and overjoyed, as he slides into his own.
This is a man who knows what he's doing. The way he moves, the position he takes that's not some two-bit criminal fighting to make himself feel fierce. This is a serious fighter, and Gray is practically tingling with excitement.
And oh, the man most certainly does not disappoint.
It's fast and dirty and thrilling and Gray's face almost hurts from how wide he's smiling as they go on and on. The man's smile isn't as big as his but his pleasure with the fight is obvious, and it fuels Gray's own.
The man almost seems to know what he's going to do before he does it, like he knows his moves even though he's never seen him fight, and Gray has to admit that there's some amount of familiarity in the man's moves as well. The stranger throws a punch at one point that is so surprising that Gray is sure had anyone else thrown it he would've taken the blow, but with this man, Gray sees the twitch of his eye and ducks just in time.
It's gorgeous, and enrapturing. Gray hasn't had a fight like this in months, not since
Not since
A flash of black, a cave, a light in the sky, a giant computer, a pair of batons in his hands
The things (memories?) flashing through his mind makes his foot hesitate for less than a second, and that's all the man needs to press the advantage, sending Gray crashing to the ground with a solid kick to his chest.
Gray starts to roll away to avoid a coming attack but his opponent lands on him hard before he can get far, effectively pinning him on his stomach to the dirt floor beneath him. Gray jerks in the hold, searching for a weak spot, but the stranger twists his arm up behind his back, tight enough that if Gray moves more than an inch he knows his shoulder will dislocate.
He can't help it he laughs, breathless and still excited. He knows he can't get out, knows he's lost the fight. But he can't even be upset about it because that was the most himself he's felt since waking up in the hospital bed.
"Do you yield, kid?" his opponent asks, and Gray can hear the grin in his voice.
"Yeah," Gray agrees, his smile not fading a centimeter. "Yeah, I yield."
With his free hand his bangs twice on the ground, and the crowd goes wild. This is the first fight the champion Gray has ever lost, and they'll be talking about it for a long time, talking about the way the two men fought like they came from a plane of existence none of them could ever hope to reach.
The stranger gets off of him immediately and Gray rolls back onto his back. They're both grinning and panting Gray far more obviously than the other man and the stranger offers Gray a hand up, which he takes.
"Could I interest you in a drink?" Gray asks as they make their way from the ring. Onlookers call out to them, cheering congratulations and apologies and a million other things, but neither of them pay any attention. Gray's used to tuning it out, and the other man appears equally adept.
The man raises an eyebrow and then nods, following Gray to the bar.
"Tommy!" Gray calls with a grin, sliding onto a barstool, "give him whatever he wants, I'll pay."
The bartender shakes his head at him, smiling back, and takes the stranger's order without complaint. "I'm surprised to see you so excited, Blue," he comments, pouring the young fighter a drink as well. "You just lost your first fight."
Gray waves him off. "You kidding? That was the most fun I've had in seven months." He turns to the newcomer then, saluting him with his drink, and Tommy moves off down the bar.
"Blue?" the stranger enquires, an amused smirk tilting the corners of his lips.
Gray laughs lightly, nodding. "It's a running joke with him; my name's Gray, and Tommy finds it funny to call me by every color under the sun instead of my actual name."
The man goes almost imperceptibly still. Most wouldn't notice, but Gray knows he's better than most. He simply doesn't understand the reaction, nor the calculating look the stranger then gives him, putting his drink down on the bar.
"Your name is Gray?" the man asks, watching Gray very carefully like he's searching for a lie.
"Uh, yeah?" Gray says awkwardly, glancing around. "Weird, I know, but it's the one I've got. Well, the one the hospital gave me, I guess—"
"Hospital?" the man interrupts, his full attention now fixed on the younger fighter.
"Uh." Gray shifts under the weight of that stare. "Yeah. Amnesia, fun shit. Woke up pretty banged up in the hospital around seven months ago with no memory of what had happened to me or even anything else before it. The doctors started calling me Gray because apparently I had some sort of weird badge in my pocket that was pretty mangled, but you could see that there was a name written there the only thing we could make out was Gray."
Silence falls then, and Gray really doesn't understand the intense, searching look he's receiving. It's disconcerting, and yet feels vaguely familiar, and it doesn't let up until suddenly the man laughs. It isn't a big thing, but it's genuine and deep in his chest.
"Well, that's...unexpected. What a delightful surprise."
"Sorry?" Gray asks, his brow furrowing. "I don't—"
"My name's Slade Wilson," the stranger interrupts, "and we know each other."
Gray blinks. Blinks again. "Oh! Wow. Holy shit." He sits up straighter. "You actually know me? Like—" He cut off, something at the back of his mind telling him to check the facts. "Prove it."
The man Slade Wilson, I know that name smirks, pleased, and says, "On your right side, about six inches beneath your armpit, you have a scar in the shape of a half-circle. In the nape of your neck, just hidden by your hair, you have a scar that looks kind of like a burn, but not quite. The pinky toe of your left foot curves away from the rest and is a little crooked. You hate apples. You love apple-flavored things. Satisfied?"
"Yeah," Gray says, blinking rapidly. This is the biggest chance he's had in months, someone who knows him, and really really knows him going by the fact that's he's clearly seen a good amount of his body. "Wow, that's wow." He blinks again, and then focuses back on Slade, who's staring at him, waiting. "How do we know each other?"
Slade tilts his head back, debating how to answer, but doesn't break eye contact. "We work together," he settles on. "Not full-time, but we're a good team. You vanished around seven months ago, though, and none of our mutual contacts heard anything about where you'd gone. You'd just...disappeared."
Gray licks his lips, thinking this over. This meant he was a mercenary before whatever happened. It...well, it fits, he supposes. All his scars, the wounds he'd had in the hospital, the fact that there was never any missing person's report to find him all evidence pointing to this particular career.
"And so you just happened to find me here?" Gray says dubiously, raising an eyebrow.
The other man puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, don't look at me like that. Whenever I do a job in Blüdhaven I stop in here, do a fight; the Bard's famous for this shit, in certain circles. Then I saw you step in the ring and I just figured this is where you'd fucked off to. It happens; a merc decides to give up the life, but can't stay too far away from their old habits. It was surprising but not weird to find you fighting.
"I decided to step in the ring for old time's sake. Had no clue you didn't know who you were fighting." He chuckles, shaking his head. "Hell, wish I'd known! Could've made it more interesting."
"So we were...friends?" Gray asks, tilting his head.
Slade smirks and downs the rest of his drink. "Yeah kid," he says, voice low. It sends a shiver not unpleasant up Gray's spine. His gaze is heated. "Yeah, we were friends."
Gray's mouth goes dry at the implication, his pulse starting to thunder in his ears. "Ah," is all he manages.
The other man hums in agreement, deep in his chest, and the intensity in his eye as he stares at Gray doesn't let up.
And, okay, out of curiosity, Gray allows himself to give the guy a once-over. Slade is most certainly very far from unattractive; his features are sharp and rugged, his muscles well-defined, his working eye a pale blue. He also carries an air of authority with him, something that commands respect, and Gray can admit that it's a very nice quality, especially since he knows the guy can back it up.
Gray smirks back at the man, figuring What the hell, and says, "I could do worse."
Slade barks a surprised laugh, shaking his head at the younger man. "Yeah, kid, you really could. Have, in the past. There was this one girl, redhead, always whining...I was glad when you dropped her, seriously, kid."
Something occurs to Gray. "Wait what's my name?"
Slade's eye twitches, then he says, "Richard Grayson. But more often you go by Renegade."
And that name well, that name Gray knows. "Renegade?" he asks, incredulously. "Isn't that like a pretty famous mercenary?" Slade raises his eyebrows at him. Another realization hits Gray. "Renegade. Slade Wilson. Fuck man, are you Deathstroke? That's insane."
Slade doesn't stop the pleased grin from taking over his features. "Even with no memory, you find a way to admire me. I'm touched."
Gray rolls his eyes. "Oh, fuck off."
He then takes a moment to breathe, to process. The name Richard Grayson rings a very, very faint bell, but doesn't really hold any meaning for him. The name Renegade, though. That is a name that carries weight.
Working in a place like the Bare Bard, you get familiar with the big-wigs in the various underground industries; mercenaries, arms dealers, drug runners you find something illegal, it'll be talked about at the Bare Bard. Which means Gray knows all the names of the major players. One of those names is Renegade.
First got talked about doing stuff in the shadows, but then he joined Deathstroke's side and made it big. According to what he'd heard, you barely ever saw Renegade, but he always made his mark. The most visible he'd ever been was when at Deathstroke's side, which was a good amount of time. No one had heard from him in a while, Gray wasn't sure how long.
And frankly, Gray...doesn't know how he feels about that. He has absolutely no problem with illegal activity couldn't, not working in a place like the Bare Bard but the idea that he not only worked as a mercenary but was also considered one of the best, the most deadly, the most effective? It's a lot more than he'd expected of himself, and he isn't sure if the idea of being that prolific of a criminal sits right with him.
"You alright, kid?" Slade prompts after a bit. He's watching him carefully, Gray can tell. Waiting for memories to return? Waiting to see if he snaps? Gray isn't sure.
"Richard," Gray says instead of answering the question, testing the name on his tongue. His nose scrunches up in distaste.
Slade snorts. "Yeah, you never liked that; used Dick as a nickname for most people to call you."
"And what did you call me?" Gray asks, lifting his chin in something of a challenge.
Slade's eye darkens, and once again Gray feels a shiver run up his spine. He leans into the sensation this time, enjoying the warm feeling in his gut. Slade stands from the barstool and takes a step forward, bringing his body right next to Gray's. He leans in, bracing a hand on the bartop, and puts his lips to Gray's ear.
"I called you little bird," he purrs, and Gray's breath catches at the promises in that tone. Slade's other hand raises to grip Gray's hip firmly. "I called you mine, kid, and you moaned when I did." He nips at Gray's earlobe, and the younger man can feel the other's grin against the side of his neck.
"Well," Gray says breathlessly, "you're talking a big game. Care to follow through?"
He feels Slade's laugh more than he hears it, and the hold on his hip tightens to a slightly painful (possessive) level. "Just remember you asked for it."
Gray doesn't remember how they get outside, but suddenly he's in the alley behind the Bare Bard, his back shoved up against the brick wall, Slade pinning his hands above his head with one hand, the other gripping Gray's thigh and holding it up, sliding easily between Gray's legs.
"How long have I...oh, you're gorgeous, little bird," Slade purrs as he bites and licks his way down Gray's neck. "I'm looking forward to taking you apart."
Gray moans as Slade presses his thigh against Gray's quickly growing erection, the pressure just this side of painful.
"Promises ah promises," Gray says, grinning, and then moans again as Slade bites down hard on his collarbone. He can feel the older man's smile against his skin.
"Kid, that's a promise I intend to follow through," he whispers roughly, and then in an instant he picks Gray up like it's nothing, forcing Gray to wrap his legs around his waist to avoid falling. This new position brings their groins together and Gray groans at the feeling, jerking his hips upward for more friction. Slade laughs, but Gray takes pride in the fact that it's shaky, breathless, clearly affected by pleasure.
Gray grunts as they suddenly settle on something hard. He glances around and sees that Slade's moved them to a motorcycle and is currently attempting to get the key in the ignition to start it.
"Taking me on a proper date?" Gray asks cheekily, smiling when Slade shoots him a look.
"As happy as I would be to fuck you over and over and over again in a dirty alley," Slade says lowly, and Gray's breath catches, "that can come later. Right now, I'm going to take you back to my hotel room and make you scream my name until I'm done with you. I'll have you shaking and begging and writhing and then, when I'm satisfied, I'll let you come."
What a time to figure out I have an authority kink, Gray muses as Slade's words spark something truly delicious in him.
"Ah," Gray says, voice faint. "That sounds—" He clears his throat and shifts, unintentionally grinding himself against Slade. He gasps at the sensation, his head falling forward to rest on the elder man's shoulder. "Like a good way to spend an evening."
He can hear Slade's shark-like grin when he says, "Couldn't agree more."
And yes, as Gray learns over the next few hours, Slade most certainly keeps his promises.
"Come work with me," Slade murmurs against his hair as they drift in the afterglow.
Gray blinks his eyes open and then turns over to look Slade in the eye, resting his chin on the elder man's chest. "Work with you?"
Slade nods. They've only just finished having sex (for the fourth time of the night, because Slade seems to have a refractory period of zero seconds) but while Gray is feeling a little drowsy, Slade looks as clearheaded and sharp as he did back at the Bare Bard.
"Before you disappeared, we were a good team," Slade says. He's watching Gray intently, looking at every minute facial twitch, as if trying to read his mind. "Just because you lost your memory doesn't mean we couldn't still be." Then he smirks. "I think tonight's activities prove that fact."
Gray laughs, swatting Slade on the chest, and then considers the offer. "You really think I wouldn't be more of a hinderance, considering I don't remember any of the contacts, the protocols, the anything about the business?"
"You could be blindfolded and with your hands tied behind your back, little bird, and you'd still be a threat to people," Slade snorts, and Gray feels pleased by the compliment. "Besides, sooner or later someone'll find you here, and it might not be a friendly face. Batman's got people everywhere, and he'd be after you."
Gray frowns and sits up. "Batman? Why would Batman care if I was just some amnesiac mercenary?"
Slade sighs and follows his lead, sitting up. He leans against the headboard and runs a hand through his hair. He's looking at him the same way he did back in the bar, when he told him they worked together, that he was the mercenary Renegade. It's like Slade's weighing his options, or trying to decide how to say it, or whether to say it, or how far to go. Gray doesn't understand the look. He knows there must be something Slade isn't telling him, but he doesn't know whether or not that's a wholly bad thing.
"He was the first person to train you," Slade says, and Gray's eyes go wide. "He taught you to fight, but when he realized he couldn't control you, he kicked you out. Then you found me, and I trained you some more, and you became Renegade. Batman's always kept an eye on you since."
"...Oh."
Trained by Batman and Deathstroke. That's not something you hear everyday.
"That doesn't really matter though," Slade says, shaking his head. He rolls over, pulling Gray under him, and starts kissing down his neck. Gray tilts his chin up to give easier access. "What matters—" he nips, and then sucks what's sure to be a deep bruise, causing Gray to moan, "—is that you and I are a fantastic team, and I want you by my side again. So what do you say, kid? Want to leave that bar behind and come travel the world with me?"
Gray's breath hitches as Slade wraps a hand around his cock, his hips bucking in the hold. He knows that this is definitely part manipulation, asking him this question while also filling his brain with pleasured chemicals, but he can't quite bring himself to care. The offer is genuine and Slade clearly knows him, so why the fuck not?
Traversing the world as a famous, skilled mercenary sounds like it could be fun.
"Sure," Gray breathes, sliding his fingers through Slade's hair. "Why the fuck not?"
He can feel Slade's grin against his neck, and when he says, "Excellent," it purrs like victory.